


nothing beside remains

by blackkat



Category: Marvel (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics), Secret Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belief, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Mental Illness, Mission Fic, Religion, Resurrection, Schizophrenia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “I don’t like this,” Marc says.“To be fair, you don’t like much of anything,” Hank counters, squinting at the screen in front of him.
Relationships: Brunhilde | Valkyrie & Marc Spector, Steve Rogers & Marc Spector
Comments: 30
Kudos: 755





	nothing beside remains

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Marc dies and gets resurrected by Khonshu in front of a load of other heroes, maybe Khonshu even appears as an image above him? Either way, Marc gets the Vindication. (And also has to reveal that he's died a few times, no biggie, I'm already both crazy and traumatised, what's a little death?? Marc, no).

“I don’t like this,” Marc says.

“To be fair, you don’t like much of anything,” Hank counters, squinting at the screen in front of him.

“I like beaches,” Marc shoots back before Steve can even open his mouth to stop them. Marc can see that he wants to. “I like fresh pears and latkes and kittens—”

“To _eat_?” Eric demands, horrified.

“—and a nice twenty-year-old scotch,” Marc finishes over top of him. “But this? This looks like a _trap_.”

“The Knight has a point,” Valkyrie says, frowning. “These hills hide too much, and the sand makes for treacherous footing.” She crosses her arms over her chest, studying the map, and then glances at Steve. “I find I like this very little, Captain.”

Steve hesitates, and Marc can see his gaze flicker from the map to Beast and back again. “Marc,” he says, and that tone’s probably supposed to be soothing. “Reports of Shadow Council activity in Egypt has picked up recently, and if we can't find what they're looking for before they do—”

“We don’t even _know_ what they're looking for,” Marc says. Glances over at Valkyrie for support, and adds, “I know there are dangerous things here, but we can't barge in. It’s not respectful.”

“This coming from the guy who claims an Egyptian god _resurrected_ him?” Eric asks incredulously, and jams the Ant-Man helmet down on his head. “Look, we’re the good guys. The Shadow Council is the bad guys. We have to _stop_ the bad guys. And if the bad guys are in an ancient temple complex, we’re just going to have to deal with it.”

Getting lectured on morality by a coward who used to be on the Thunderbolts is nothing like what Marc signed up for. He makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat, but before he can say anything Steve sighs.

“Eric is right,” he says, and Eric brightens. “If there’s Shadow Council activity down there, we have to stop it. There are too many innocents who will suffer if we don’t.”

“Fine.” Marc trades looks with Valkyrie, and when he steps away from the group, she follows him. Her nod to Steve is polite enough, but the line of her mouth is unhappy, and as soon as they’re in the next room of the plane, she comes to a stop.

“Your god rules this place?” she asks.

Marc shrugs. “Once,” he says, and checks the shadows. There’s no sign of Khonshu, though, no trace of his presence except a steady point of pressure inside Marc's head. “It’s a temple complex, though. Khonshu's not going to be the only god we offend if we pick a fight down there.”

Valkyrie’s frown is troubled. “I hope that they will be lenient, knowing our mission,” she says, and then raises her eyes to study him for a long moment. “Does it not trouble you?” she asks abruptly. “That they do not believe in your god?”

Like him being resurrected because someone dumped him at the feet of Khonshu's statue and the god took a shine to him is more unbelievable than any of the insane things they’ve heard this _week_. Marc snorts, dragging his mask down and pulling his hood up. “There are always nonbelievers,” he says dismissively. “You believe, and Black Panther, and Brother Voodoo. Stephen Strange, Wong. _I_ believe, and that’s what matters.”

Valkyrie smiles, quick and small and warm. “Yes,” she agrees, and bows her head to him. “I pray that your god will forgive me my intrusion on his sacred spaces.”

“You’ll be fine,” Marc says, a little awkwardly. This part of being Khonshu's avatar is always a bit weird. “Khonshu's not that picky, and he likes a fight. But…”

But this temple complex isn't just dedicated to him. There are temples to Mut and Amun down there, and Marc's more than a little wary of crossing Khonshu's godly adopted parents. Ra was more than bad enough.

“My hope that we simply relieve the temples of their infestation,” Valkyrie murmurs, straightening. “And the gods will see it as such.”

That’s the best case scenario, isn't it? Marc sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and watches her walk away. He doesn’t actually care very much that most people seem to think Khonshu is just another manifestation his brain has dredged up, but—it’s kind of amusing, honestly. Two weeks ago they faced a guy who snorted the bones of ancient eldritch gods to give himself superpowers, and pretty much every member of the team has been dead and come back, but—Marc's crazy, so everything he says is crazy, too. Clearly.

“I’d be sorrier about this if you weren’t a dick,” he tells Khonshu, knowing he’ll hear even if he hasn’t deigned to show his face recently. The way the Secret Avengers have been mowing down the Shadow Council followers, he’s probably glutted on hearts right now.

Outside the window of the quinjet, the moon is full, heavy. Marc stares at it, and—he doesn’t quite remember staggering across the desert after Bushman beat him half to death. Doesn’t remember the tomb, the statue, Marlene having the men set his body in the cleared space before the statue’s feet. But—

He remembers waking up with the moon in his eyes and a burning, beating sense of _awareness_ stretching out a hundred miles in every direction.

The vestments feel heavy tonight, a comfort. Marc curls his fingers in the edges of his cloak and breathes.

The rap of knuckles against metal draws his eyes back to the doorway, where Steve is in full uniform, the device that generates his shield strapped to his arm. He’s watching Marc, quiet, and when Marc cocks his head at him, he sighs and steps into the room.

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” he asks. “Going down there?”

“No,” Marc says shortly, and he’s confident of that at least. It’s not going to be a problem for _him_. “Do you want me to scout?”

Steve shakes his head. “We’ll move as a team,” he says firmly. “I don’t want anyone getting distracted or going off on their own.”

Marc just shrugs. He knows how to be a team player, even if he doesn’t do it often. “We should try not to break anything,” he says instead.

Steve smiles a little. “Scared of a mummy’s curse?” he asks lightly. “Tony told me those scares were all fungus.”

“Try repressed Victorian guilt for colonialism,” Marc says, unamused. He buys most of the artifacts he collects on the black market, but he makes sure that Steven puts two dollars into helping people in Egypt for every dollar he spends on their habit, and sends back everything that doesn’t relate directly to Khonshu as an anonymous donor. “There’s no curse. But being polite doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Steve pauses, then blows out a breath. “I’ll tell the team,” he says. “Just—keep on track, all right?”

It’s not meant unkindly. Marc can see that. But the implication is _don’t let your delusions get in the way of the mission_, and Marc kind of wants to tell him again that Khonshu isn't a delusion. He’s real. Marc's always known that, and other people have acknowledged it over the years, too. Jericho Drumm came to him specifically when Killmonger killed T’Challa, to help guide his _ka_ back to his body, and there have been a handful of other people over the years who have acknowledged the god, who have seen Marc as his avatar.

Marc's illnesses don’t have any bearing on Khonshu's existence.

Steve didn’t want to believe him about the possessions on their last mission, though. Held back even though he saw the souls departing himself. Marc knows better than to bring it up, so he keeps his mouth shut and simply follows when Steve turns to leave.

“Sharon can't put us down in this sand,” Steve says to the assembled team, “so we’re going in the hard way. Ant-Man, you're with Moon Knight. Valkyrie, Beast—”

“Parachutes, yes,” Hank says with a sigh.

“If _someone_ hadn’t disassembled the thruster packs—”

“I hardly knew we would need them so soon after Cincinnati,” Hank counters, faintly sheepish. “Ah, well. Best to practice, regardless.”

Marc eyes Eric, not overly enthusiastic about playing pack mule. Eric eyes him right back, and levels a warning finger at him.

“If you drop me,” he starts.

“I would never,” Marc lies, perfectly flat. “Hang on to my truncheon.”

“On your _leg_? Rhodey lets me ride on his shoulder, and Natasha lets me ride in her cleavage—”

“On my leg or I stuff you in _my_ cleavage and we see how you like that.”

“Fine, fine!” Eric throws up his hands, then shrinks down, and Marc watches him leap for the harness around his thigh with narrowed eyes. The weight is less than a second truncheon, and won't be too hard to account for, even with the wind outside.

Steve leans back into the cockpit, and when Sharon turns to give him a thumbs up, he smiles back. “All right,” he says, pulling back. “Just like on Mars. We find what the Shadow Council is digging for, take it, and stop them. Stay together, stay on comms. Avengers, move out.”

A side door slides open, washing sandy air across the room, and Marc doesn’t pause. He hits the edge of the plane and leaps, summersaulting past the edge of the engines. There’s a loud shriek over the comms, but Marc ignores Eric, spreads his arms, and feels the featherlight strands of metal in his cloak go stiff, turning it into a glider. The wings catch, and in perfect silence they swoop towards the edge of the half-buried temple entrance. Marc judges the angle, the footing, and lets the cloak fold again six feet above the ground. There’s just enough time for Marc to twist, and he lands on his feet, tips forward into a roll to spend momentum, and comes up in a crouch.

The entranceway’s roof is gone beyond a few heavy stone beams, open to the sky, and the moonlight traces a path from the high, wide doorway straight up the stone floor, to where a crescent-shaped pool of water shimmers at the feet of a hooded god. Marc breathes in, then rises, and ignores the sound of the others landing behind him. Khonshu holds all of his attention, and he stares for a long moment.

The great stone head turns to look right at him, and Khonshu's falcon-stare is intent, amused. He raises a hand, pointing to the doorway to the right of him, and then drops it. Turns back straight, and a moment later he’s nothing but stone again.

“Right,” Marc says, making for the door.

There's a sound of surprise from behind him, a huff. “Moon Knight,” Beast says. “There's no path into the temple that way, I saw the layout.”

“The layout was wrong,” Marc returns flatly, and when steps catch up with him, he glances over to find Valkyrie matching him.

“Perhaps the Shadow Council saw the same layout,” she proposes. “T’would be prescient to come upon them from a direction they did not explore.”

There’s an exasperated breath from behind them, but Steve doesn’t protest. “All right,” he says. “Moon Knight, you saw something?”

That tone is a warning, saying that he’d better have. Marc refrains from rolling his eyes, because they're on a team with a mystical martial artist, an ancient monk who turns into green mist, and a goddess who ferries souls to Valhalla, but _he’s_ the sketchy one. “Yes,” he says, because that’s true. He’s just not about to say that it was Khonshu he saw. And, at the doorway, he spots a good enough sign anyway. “The full moon in the crescent moon disk? This leads to Khonshu's part of the temple.”

“You're familiar with the symbolism, then,” Beast says, padding after them as the narrow tunnel closes over their heads. He has to duck to fit.

“I’ve spent a lot of time in Africa,” Marc says, noncommittal. Marlene was a respected archeologist, too, and they lived together for long enough that he picked up some things, even beyond his own research.

Besides, Khonshu's always pretty consistent in sticking to his own symbols, and he’s connected to enough other gods that learning their symbols was necessary.

“From the layout we saw, it looks like two of the temples face each other, with the third beyond them,” Steve says. “If they're looking for something valuable, any idea which one it would be in?”

Marc hesitates. He’s pretty sure that if the Shadow Council was going after something of Khonshu's, Khonshu wouldn’t hesitate to throw a fit at him, but of course that still leaves two other option. “Mut is the queen of the heavens,” he says. “It’s her temple facing Khonshu's. Amun is the one at the top of the complex.”

“God of war?” Eric asks, still clinging to Marc's truncheon. “God of death, god of killing? Something spicy, right, if the Shadow Council wants something that was made for them.”

“That’s Khonshu,” Marc says flatly. Up ahead, there's movement in the passage, a shift along the walls like the reliefs are shifting, and Khonshu's falcon-headed form turns to watch them pass, the heart in his hand dripping blood for an instant before he devours it. Beyond him, a woman with vulture wings raises her papyrus scepter, narrowed eyes tracking their passage, and Marc holds her stare for a heartbeat, then drops his eyes and bows his head.

When he looks again, the reliefs are still, and there's no sign they moved at all.

The passage ends at an intersection, two more paths splitting off, and Marc stops there, looking for any more signs. The relief before them shows a pharaoh in the underworld, Khonshu standing before the bodies of a dozen massacred enemies with blood a wide pool around his feet, and Marc steps forward. Another heart, here, and he touches it with one gloved finger.

Khonshu turns his head and winks, pointing left with the crook and flail he holds. Silently, Marc breathes a prayer of thanks, then turns, takes three steps and rounds a corner—

Voices.

Raising a hand, Marc signals to Valkyrie, who stops, tilting her head. Steve, right behind her, nods curtly and raises his shield arm, then gestures to Marc and signs for recon. Marc kid of wants to roll his eyes, because he’s wearing all white for the sole purpose of people seeing him coming and there’s a _reason_ they usually leave ground-bound recon to Natasha, but nods and slips forward around another corner, then out into the actual temple complex. Another statue of Khonshu stands at the end of a short row of sphinxes, and behind it, carved into the stone of the valley, is the temple itself. Columns mark the entrance, still in almost perfect repair, and from within the darkness behind them, Marc can just make out a light.

Not moonlight. Not what _should_ be there.

“You couldn’t have warned me they were in _your_ temple?” he mutters, and the closest sphinx laughs, turning its head to eye him with a falcon-stare.

“**_Where’s the fun in that_**?” Khonshu taunts. “**_Remove the trash, my son, before they break a vase_**.”

“Fuck you,” Marc mutters, but he slides a crescent dart off his belt and curls his fingers around it.

“Oh my god, why did I get stuck with the crazy guy,” Eric bemoans. “Who the hell are you talking to? No, wait, don’t tell me, I actually don’t want to know.”

The urge to flick him off like his namesake is strong, but Marc resists. “They’re in Khonshu's temple,” he says over the comm. And really, there are far too many nasty things that have been made in Khonshu's name over the years, but—somehow, Marc suspects that the Shadow Council is more interested in his aspect as the god of time, given their recent attempts at using one of Doom’s time platforms.

“All right,” Steve murmurs. “Moon Knight, see how close you can get. Eric, find a spot to hide and get ready to jump in if we need you.”

“Just call me the element of surprise,” Eric agrees, and as Marc ghosts past the first line of columns the weight of him disappears.

Marc's hardly upset about being deserted; he snorts softly, and says warningly, “Don’t break anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, ancient heritage and lots of history, blah, blah. Tell that to the Shadow Council and that temple they destroyed in China.”

“_We_ destroyed,” Marc mutters, though Eric isn't listening to him. Saving Shang-Chi and stopping his father’s resurrection was important, but destroying a place like that still stung faintly. Or maybe Marc's just gotten used to the only remnants of his own religion being lost temples and artifacts stolen and pawned by enterprising assholes or desperate people with no choice. Khonshu still has a following, but—the cult itself is thousands of years old, and the ages show.

Sliding into the shadows, Marc carefully picks his way towards the inner room of the temple, following the sound of voices. The roof isn't solid rock; there are windows carved into it, massive openings that let in the moonlight, and the patches of brilliance tingle against Marc's skin as he passes them. Movement on the edge of one draws his eye, and he glances up to see a vulture perched on the edge of the stone, watching. Blinks, and it’s gone, but—

Mut’s supposed to take the form of a vulture, symbol of a protective mother. Marc winces, and hopes she’s not too annoyed that they’re picking a fight right next to her temple.

The Shadow Council troops are beyond a second row of columns, inside the inner temple, and Marc slips around the edges of the lights they’ve put up. One of the flagstones from the floor has been shattered, and they're pulling it up in chunks, clearing away the dust. It sets Marc's teeth on edge, but even worse, beyond it, there’s a broken statue lying in chunks on the ground, scattered carelessly so more workers could get to the pedestal beneath its feet. The head has slid into the darkness, and Marc pauses beside it, anger bubbling like acid in his chest. Crouching down, he touches the veiled face, the sidelock, and watches as Khonshu opens his eyes.

“**_Looks like it’s terminal, kid_**,” he jokes, and a few feet away a stone hand wiggles its fingers. “**_Hey, you think I could get a role as Thing in that Addams Family remake_**?”

“Who would want you?” Marc retorts, but he picks up the hand and ducks back into the shadows as a Shadow Council goon passes.

“**_Holding my hand now? Do I look that bad, that my wayward son wants to comfort me_**?” Despite the joking tone, Khonshu's eyes burn in the shadows, white light and red blood and the full force of a war fought in between seconds. “**_How tragic_**.”

“I’ll kill them for you,” Marc says, and sets the hand down next to Khonshu's broken face. It’s a promise, even if he’s tried not to kill these last few years.

“Moon Knight?” Steve sounds alarmed over the comms. “Moon Knight, what’s happening? Hold back, I don’t want anyone acting alone here.”

Marc sets his jaw, takes a second. Should have turned his comm off, or at least muffled it, he thinks. “Twenty soldiers,” he says. “They’re digging for something. I'm not going to let them get it.”

“Moon Knight, stand down,” Steve warns. “Wait for the rest of the team. Beast, Valkyrie—”

A voice, low and sharp. Not over the comms, but from the shadows, and Marc's eyes narrow as he watches Max Fury approach the diggers, speaking to a man in a cloak. Not familiar, but—

There's a mark on his robes, and that _is_ familiar.

“**_My fascist fucking dad_**,” Khonshu says scornfully. “**_Of course _he’d_ be involved_**.”

Just a priest, Marc thinks. Ra’s cult most definitely still has a following, and—

The man turns his head, like he can hear Khonshu's voice. Looks, and Marc watches fire kindle and start to burn inside his skin, eating him from the inside out until he’s nothing but bones in a fancy robe, still walking and talking but entirely dead.

Not an avatar. Still just a priest, but—dangerous.

“Max Fury is here,” he reports, “and a priest of Ra. Watch him. He’s got some kind of power.”

“What?” Eric says, confused. “I only see evil Fury, where’s the priest?”

“Talking to him,” Marc says shortly, and rises. Leaves Khonshu's statue, ducking around behind the pedestal, and makes his way to the far edge of the shadowed pillars, where another intricate relief is laid into the stone. This one is Khonshu looming over his priests, a hand stretched out to one of them. Marc pauses there, staring at it, at the first priest’s white mask, the crescent moon laid into his forehead. Gently, carefully, he touches it, then bows his head for a moment.

Khonshu was here. He’s always been here. Another Moon Knight was here once, too.

“There’s no one there,” Eric says, incredulous. “Beast, do you—”

“I too only see Fury,” Hank says, and the concern in his voice is heavy, urgent. “Moon Knight, come back, you can guard the passage for our retreat—”

Marc ignores them. He’s crazy, but he knows a threat when he sees one. Knows that whatever’s under that stone isn't something he wants the Shadow Council getting their hands on, _or_ one of Ra’s priests, and especially both at once. Hefting his dart, he steps around the pillar, takes one look up at the full moon, and breathes in.

“We don’t have time,” Steve says. “Avengers, move. Moon Knight, don’t worry about the priest, take out Max—”

The shadow of a vulture passes across the moon, and the priest pauses, glances up—

Marc's crescent dart sinks into bare bone, knocking the man back two steps. He stumbles, but the dart is already melting, dripping down his skull, and Marc curses. Max’s head snaps up, just in time for Marc to kick him in the face. He staggers, and Marc drops, lashing out with a foot that sweeps underneath pale robes to kick out bony ankles, and the priest shrieks as he falls. Rising, Marc flips another dart loose from his belt, slams it upward, and tears cloth instead of flesh when Max dodges at the last moment.

“_You_!” the priest shrieks, staggering up, and he’s still burning, a skeleton covered in licking flames like a funeral pyre. When he reaches out, those same flames surge, and Marc leaps, grabs Max’s shoulder as the LMD grabs for a gun and flips right over him, dropping down and slamming a punch between his shoulder blades. Max staggers, and Marc dives sideways just as a gun goes off, a rattle of bullets impacting the column he flings himself behind.

“Kill the knight!” the priest shouts. “Kill the knight first, don’t let Khonshu's priest escape—”

“Max!” Steve shouts, and more Shadow Council troops turn to him, fire. Marc sees a half-second glimpse of hard light and movement, and then Valkyrie explodes out of the dust with a ringing cry, sword leading. Beast surges out on her right, grabbing for two of the closest goons and hurling them right off their feet and into a tangle of other men, then following with a high leap. A moment later, Steve drops down from somewhere high, landing right in front of Max, and they collide in a blur.

And, in the midst of the confusion, one of the soldiers shouts.

Marc feels the flickering, ferocious surge of _something_, like a sudden wash of adrenaline through his veins. In the center of the cleared flagstone, a man rises, holding a small box up in victory, and Marc's breath catches in his throat.

Looming beside him, business suit and skeletal bird head and burning, blazing fury, Khonshu makes a sound that’s very close to a growl. “**_My son_**,” he says. “**Bring me his heart.”**

Marc's never made a habit of following Khonshu's orders, but—

This time, he decides, he’ll make an exception.

In a surge of motion, Marc flings himself out from behind the pillar, leaping right over Steve and Max as they struggle, dropping down in the middle of a knot of Shadow Council soldiers. His truncheon flashes up, out, takes the first in the throat and the second in the belly, and Marc lashes out, puts them down and leaps past, sliding underneath a grabbing arm and rising with a fist leading, dropping a third and then a fourth without mercy. A silver crescent takes out a man coming up behind Valkyrie, then another between Marc and the digger, and he slams into the man holding one of Khonshu's relics, barrels into him and knocks him to the ground with a crunch of his helmet breaking, and starts hitting. The man tries to fight back, but he’s dazed, can't manage more than a few weak hits, and when Marc stabs downward with a crescent dart the man can't even begin to stop him.

The spray of blood is victory and satisfaction and elation not entirely Marc's own, and he rises, gripping the box, with Khonshu right beside him.

“**_The priest_**,” Khonshu hisses, gleeful, vicious. “**_Take the priest, my knight, kill him, bring me his heart as well and let me feast_**—”

For once, Marc doesn’t argue. Doesn’t ignore, either. He takes two steps through the fighting, steps to the left as Beast barrels right past his shoulder, and locks eyes with the robed skeleton, still burning. But there’s something in his hand, something bright, blazing crimson, and he lifts it, levels it—

Not at Marc. At Steve, just rising, his back to the priest as he focuses on Max. Marc can feel the malice, the heat, and the super-soldier serum is powerful, able to heal almost everything, but magic is outside its realm of influence. If that hits Steve, he won't survive it.

Marc doesn’t even have to think. He flings himself forward, just as a jet of red light leaves the priest’s hand. It’s fast, blurring, but Marc is faster. He flings himself into Steve, the impact knocking Steve right off his feet. Behind them, Valkyrie shouts, grief and fury rising, a shield maiden’s recognition of what’s about to happen—

Fire, and pain, and then darkness, and Marc doesn’t even feel himself hit the ground.

The sound of a body hitting the ground, lifeless and limp, is terrible, wretchedly familiar.

Heart in his throat, Steve rolls, rises. Turns, trying to deny what he already knows, and—

A gloved, bloody hand rests near his boot. Moon Knight’s cape is ripped, blood-splattered, curled around his still, sprawled form like a crescent moon, and there’s a hole edged with angry red light torn right through the center of his chest and out the other side.

Steve stares, sick, shaken, and it feels like there’s a vise around his own chest, like he’s never going to be able to draw a full breath again.

Marc is dead, and he died saving Steve.

“Commander!” Valkyrie cries. “Behind you!”

Steve turns, rises, shield coming up, and out of the shadows a figure comes clear, limned in the same red light that killed Marc. A man in robes, with a golden disk on a chain around his neck, and Steve looks at him and thinks _priest_.

“What the hell?” Eric breathes over the comms. “Where the hell did he come from?”

There’s no time to ask that. Max is scrambling up, ducking away, and in his place three Shadow Council soldiers rush Steve. Valkyrie yells a challenge, swinging for the priest, and the man recoils, cries out. She’s too quick, though, too angry; Steve catches half a glimpse of her catching hold of the man, hand licked with flame that she hardly seems to notice, and then has to turn back to his own fight, ducking the butt of a gun and grabbing another man’s arm, heaving him up and flinging him back into a pillar already peppered with bullet holes.

Too hard. The pillar shakes, and Steve catches his breath. He’s angry. It’s hard to control his strength.

“Evil Fury is getting away!” Eric calls. “He made it out the back and to a plane, should I—?”

“Sharon, follow,” Steve orders, because he’s still the commander. He has to. “Eric, fall back, I don’t want you on that plane. He’ll find you.”

Besides, they have other things to worry about.

“Oh, no,” Hank breathes, and he crouches down beside Marc, reaching out. Hesitates there, then touches Marc's throat, searching for a pulse even though it should be obvious there isn't one. Marc is human. _Was_ human. A hell of a lot more human that Steve.

Steve probably couldn’t have survived that blast, either.

“It is done,” Valkyrie says grimly as she approaches, sheathing her sword. There’s blood on her hands, but she doesn’t seem to care. She crouches down beside Moon Knight, resting a hand on his shoulder, and takes a breath.

“I didn’t see,” she says, and bows her head. “I saw no glow of death around him when we left the ship. Always I have seen a man’s death in battle, but not the Knight’s.”

“Magic is unpredictable,” Hank says, and clears his throat, finally pulling his hand away. “I—I'm afraid there’s nothing I can do.” He sounds entirely at a loss, and Steve closes his eyes for a long, long moment, just trying to breathe.

“Damn it,” Steve hisses, and presses a fist against his forehead. Marc warned them, saw the priest. There’s no doubt what he was seeing was real, and Steve—

Steve didn’t know. Marc sees things, sometimes. Wires in his brain crossed, Tony said once. His brain can't tell his thoughts are thoughts and not other people’s voices, or images from his own subconscious. Schizophrenia, probably, to go along with a handful of other illnesses. That’s not an excuse, though. Marc was his _teammate_, and he died for Steve.

“Damn,” he says again, tired, angry, full of grief, and Valkyrie grips his shoulder tightly, then leans forward. With a grim, sad expression, she gathers Marc up in her arms and rises to her feet, the sweep of his white cloak like a fall of moonlight tumbling to brush the floor.

“I will take him,” she says, and then pauses. “What the Shadow Council came for—”

“I have it,” Eric says, full-size, and slips between Hank and Steve to pick up a small metal box. “I—I swear I didn’t see—”

“No one did,” Hank says gently, and rises, offering Steve a hand.

Steve takes it. Standing feels hard, like there's a weight on his shoulders, and the air swims. He can't quite make himself look away from Moon Knight’s hooded and masked face, resting on Valkyrie’s shoulder. There’s—he’s going to have to notify someone. Marc never mentioned a significant other, just his pilot, his butler, his housekeeper. But—Steve will have to tell them that Marc's gone.

“A brave end,” Valkyrie murmurs, cradling Marc to her. “And in a fitting place. I hope your god guides your soul well, Moon Knight.”

Steve's breath rattles in his lungs, like the ghost of an old illness come back to haunt him even now. Too slow, and if he’d just _realized_—

Four steps outside the temple, and Valkyrie comes to a sharp halt. The sound of her indrawn breath is deafening in the quiet of fallen bodies.

“Val?” Steve asks sharply, and crosses the last few meters between them at a dead run. Rounds the edge of the statue, and —

It feels like an impact, like every bit of air has been knocked out of his lungs. Standing in the center of the path flanked by sphinxes, a man in ancient Egyptian armor and a long, hooded white cloak stares at them. He’s glowing with the same brilliant white of the moon above them, and in one hand is a staff topped with a crescent moon cradling the silver disk of the full moon.

“Oh,” Hank says unsteadily, and takes a step to the side, around Steve. “Are you—another Moon Knight, perhaps—”

“**_Release my knight_**,” the man says, voice echoed, edged and underlaid and overlapped with something that vibrates against Steve's bones, and Valkyrie drops to her knees without even a second’s pause, laying Marc out on the stone. She folds his cloak around him, then rises and steps back, inclining her head deeply.

“Khonshu,” she says, and Steve throat feels so tight it’s like there’s a hand around it.

The moon god looks at Valkyrie, then lifts his gaze to Steve. Holds there, then looks at Eric, who gulps audibly.

“**_My relic_**,” he orders, and Eric hastily offers up the box. As soon as Khonshu takes it, he bolts back, practically throwing himself behind Beast.

Khonshu doesn’t deign to notice. Gloved hands open the box, pulling out a small silver crescent, more ornate than the darts Marc uses. For a moment, he holds it up, then snorts, and closes his hand around it.

“**_Useless baubles. Hardly worth hiding at all_**,” he says, and opens his fingers, letting it drop. It falls right into the hole in Marc's chest, and Steve can't help the noise that tears from his throat, the automatic denial. He goes to step forward, to throw Khonshu away from Marc, but Valkyrie catches his shoulder and pins him in place.

“No, Steve,” she says quietly. “Wait.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but before he can Khonshu leans down, catches Marc's face between his hands, and says, “**_Awaken, my son. Your task isn't done yet_**.”

And Marc _does_.

With a gasp, his eyes open, and he jerks. Desperate, clumsy hands grab his mask, wrenching it up and off, and he lurches over on his side, gasping desperately for breath. He clutches at his chest, but—

Under his fingers, there’s smooth skin instead of raw flesh, and Steve's relief shudders through him like electricity. He takes a step forward before his knees give out, and even as he hits the ground he reaches out, grabs Marc and hauls him close, hugging him tightly.

There’s a startled pause, a ragged cough. Carefully, cautiously, Marc's arm comes up around him in return, and he rasps, “I told you Khonshu was real.”

Steve laughs, the sound jarred out of his throat, and tightens his grip. “You did,” he agrees. “And I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be wrong.” Pulling back enough to see Marc's face, he stares at him for a moment, then lets out a breath and asks, “You're all right?”

Marc glances away, not meeting his eyes. “Not the first time I've died,” he says, and coughs again, rubbing his chest. “Or the second.”

Steve shakes his head, then hugs Marc again. They’re definitely going to have to talk about this, but—

“Thank you,” he tells Khonshu, who’s staring down at them with an avian sort of amusement, inhuman and strange.

Marc snorts, but he looks up too, touches two fingers to his brow. “Thanks,” he agrees, then pauses and adds, “You're still an ass.”

Khonshu laughs, a strange, clicking sound, like bones on a stone floor. “**_Trade,_**” he says, and his figure shimmers like moonlight on water, fading away. “**_You’ve fed me well on hearts tonight, my son, and will hide my relic well._**”

“Not that you gave me a choice,” Marc says, but he doesn’t sound bothered by it. Sags a little in Steve's hold, eyes closing, and then says, “I feel like I got hit by a train.”

“I’d believe it,” Steve says, and hears Sharon announcing her return over the comm, the loss of Max Fury’s craft. Taking a breath, he asks, “Can you stand?”

“Sure,” Marc says gamely, but when Steve hauls him up his knees almost buckle, and he grunts. “Probably.”

With a flicker of amusement, Steve hauls Marc's arm over his shoulders, holding him up. Without a word, Valkyrie takes the other side, supporting Marc between them. “Anything else?” he asks.

There's a pause, and then Marc sighs. “Anyone got one of my darts?” he asks. “I'm out.”

“Here,” Hank says, stooping to pull out of a fallen Shadow Council soldier. He grimaces a little, but offers it up.

Marc shakes his head. “Not for me,” he says. “Leave it in front of the statue. For Khonshu.”

Hank is silent for a moment as he does so, but when he straightens, there’s a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. He looks at Marc for a long moment, and then says, “I'm sorry I called you psychotic.”

Marc's mouth quirks. “I still might pass out,” he returns, and Hank snorts a laugh.

“Come on,” Steve says, relief heavy in his bones. “Let’s get back to the quinjet. I'm tired of all the sand.”


End file.
